


Inundated

by Natalyas_Neverland



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Constructive Criticism Welcome, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, One-Sided Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Or Is It?, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natalyas_Neverland/pseuds/Natalyas_Neverland
Summary: Right before dawn, while it was still dark, a hungry, vicious werewolf crept up to their camp, but saw that it was Dandelion, so he listened for a moment and then went on his way.- Andrej Sapkowski, Sword of Destiny~Coming back from hunting for their supper, Geralt sees something strange.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 126





	Inundated

It was well past dark when Geralt finally returned with a brace of rabbits, and he prepared himself for Jaskier’s inevitable whining. He couldn’t blame him, really, it was late and Geralt was hungry as well. But when he entered the campsite, walking loudly so as not to startle the bard, he found it empty.

Though it was possible that Jaskier had only gone off a ways for a piss, Geralt wouldn’t put it past him to just wander off for a better view of the stars or some shit. His absence made Geralt… uncomfortable. Not that he cared for the bard, of course, but there were wild animals out there, and it was his job as a witcher to protect humankind. It wouldn’t do to just let the idiot die.

It wasn’t too hard to follow the bard’s scent, perfumed as he always was. But as it grew stronger, another scent grew as well and his medallion began to vibrate. Werewolves.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered under his breath. It was just like Jaskier, really, to get himself into a mess like this. He was practically asking for it; it was a wonder it hadn’t happened sooner.

Geralt moved swiftly but quietly, listening intently for pained moans or screams. Instead he heard… singing? And a lute being played softly, sweetly, unlike anything he’d ever heard from Jaskier. It made him ache — or would have, if witchers had emotions. Which they didn’t, of course.

Finally he reached a clearing, and saw Jaskier, bathed in moonlight, tears streaming down his cheeks, singing.

_“It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much I love you…”_

At the bard’s feet, causing Geralt to grip his sword in panic, were 5 large werewolves. But to his confusion, they made no move to attack Jaskier, though the witcher could almost see their ribs through their thinning fur. They listened, docile, for a few more verses before fading back into the shadows, no doubt off to find some less beautiful prey.

Geralt was overcome with the certainty that if he killed them now, they would die happy. He should kill them now, before they hurt anyone else. He should kill them now.

Geralt didn’t move.

Instead he stared at Jaskier: bard, poet, barker of the White Wolf, tamer of wild beasts and monsters, tragic and beautiful in the moonlight, and he realized what was different about this song.

His pie had a filling. His beautiful music had beautiful words and they were true, they were real, and they cut him to the core. They tamed monsters.

 _‘Oh,’_ thought Geralt, _‘to be the object of that passion. To be loved by one such as him.’_

He thought, _‘It would kill me.’_

He thought, _‘I’d let it.’_

And he turned and walked back toward the campsite, for he knew it could never be. He was a witcher. Witchers didn’t feel. He was a witcher. His job was to kill monsters, protect humanity, nothing more. He was a witcher. Jaskier would never— 

He’d reached the campsite. Not bothering to undress, he dropped onto his bedroll, curled into himself, and let out a single, broken sob.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic, I'd love some (kind) constructive criticism.


End file.
